Desolate Dreamers

Whether in a beach bar of questionable clientele,

A castle in the Bavarian Alps,

A backyard barbecue in East LA,

Or a late-night diner in Manhattan,

Emptiness knows no boundary.

There’s always a “she-he-it,”

The one who dreams the empty anticipation

Of immortality.

Yet…

For many,

Such is not worth the

Take down of life’s jeers and smears

The ridicule-norm.

Not worth it.

The staring at the crab netting,

The elitist gazing upon his dry mote,

The loneliness of midnight coffee and toast,

Hears not the dreary counter chitty-chat of wanna-be someones,

With you,

Me,

Us,

Eavesdropping.

It’s them,

Not me,

Right?

We say.

And always…

There’s the moment

When one chitty-chat raises her fingers of long black polished nails

Toasting me/you/us with her empty coffee cup

And a wink.

Onward proceeds the main course…

Fish and chips for our beach bar surfer,

Roast boar on a spit at the mountain palace,

Burgers and dogs on the barbecue,

Another round of coffee and toast for me/you/us

And Yankee Pot Roast for the long nails

Followed by sultry Peggy Lee on the jukebox

Reminding us that this is

All there is

For the desolate dreamers

Staring at an empty aisle of legless-ghosts wanting to dance

As an injured fly struggles beneath my/you/our coffee cup

For that tiny morsel of sugar,

 The kind of sheer-joy-moment we know not of.